A/N: Yeah, I'm going to keep beating this dead horse. Someone's got to write the Brackenreid fics, and the more I write, the more I love it. I was listening to a stream of old Victorian parlor songs to get in the mood for writing and stumbled across Love's Old Sweet Song, released in 1884, by James Lynam Molloy and G. Clifton Bingham. Then this happened. I really had to question myself why I wrote this story and the one before it, and it all comes back to Margaret. I believe in my heart that she isn't insufferable, but misguided.

Preshow MTB, but barely, in the winter of 1894. Unbetaed and complete as published, as if I really need to say that once again. References to a surprising occurrence in 7x16 Kung Fu Crabtree that couldn't go without making some attempt to explain it, honestly. References also to things discussed in 8x04 Holy Matrimony Murdoch and 1x07 Body Double. There's one more oneshot I'm planning to write, and then comes my first go at a full length MM story. You can see from my archive that I've written 'novels' for other fandoms, but this one is going to require a whole lot more research. I'll give you a hint: 17th century AU on the high seas. But fear not-my other AU series is far from over, even if the canon potential of Gemily is removed from the equation. As always, thanks for the support. Enjoy.

Weary Grow the Way

Once in the dear dead days beyond recall…

Margaret Brackenreid took a deep breath, and although the fire in the chimney was raging at her feet, shivered prodigiously in the folds of her robe. It was a rare evening indeed when Thomas was not home before midnight, but she continued to wait up for her husband, as she often did.

A dreadful caterwaul of a snow storm had rolled into the city at dusk, trapping commuters in their carriages and blanketing the streets with a thick powder. Margaret had often seen these kinds of storms growing up in Toronto, and she knew that it was more than likely the kind of snow that stuck to one's skin, that stung the nerves and leached the heat out of whatever it touched. Outside the window a winter wonderland was beginning to form, irreverent of the fact that it was only the first week in November.

When on the world a mist began to fall…

Two kitchen rags had been stuffed into the bell of the phonograph's horn so as to muffle the volume, for her eight-year-old son was fast asleep in the next room. A faceless crooner repeatedly belted out one of the more popular songs of the past decade, only interrupted by Margaret placing the needle back in its original position. Every few minutes, she would repeat the same routine; leaving her perch on the chaise, she would adjust the instrument and circle back to the window, whereupon she would confirm that the streets were still empty and her husband had yet to arrive. Their bedroom jutted out immediately above the porch, making it most convenient to view the stoop from a casual position. Once this was done, Margaret would return to her seat, sticking her stockinged feet onto the stones on the hearth and pretending that she wasn't about to succumb to her nerves. Perhaps it had been a mistake to tell him so soon.

Out of the dreams that rose in happy throng…

She could no longer hide the advancing state of her pregnancy behind high waisted frocks and objects conspicuously held at level with her navel. According to the physician from which she had sought counsel, she was nearly five months with child. By all accounts, Thomas would have noticed her condition, but then she had remembered he was often out before she could rouse their son in the morning and get dressed herself. He would return far after sunset, when the lights were so low in the parlor that any rounding of her stomach could be blamed on the falling of a shadow. Then he would read the newspaper and turn in, not so much as making physical contact with his wife of almost a decade, and the cycle would repeat all over again.

Truth be told, Margaret couldn't recall the last time she had been intimate with her husband, save for the incident where her child must have been conceived.

Low to our hearts, love sang an old sweet song…

Ever since he had been promoted to Inspector, it had become a guilty pleasure of hers to make love to Thomas in his office. They hadn't much opportunity to do so, but every time only made her feel more wanton and desirable. It was an understanding they shared, that every time she sought him out after a certain time of night that there would be something in it for the both of them. As time progressed and communication slowed to a crawl in their relationship, Mrs. Brackenreid knew only two things: something really ought to change, and her dear husband really, really responded to being referred to by his police rank.

With the addition of a new detective, it had been assumed that Thomas's work load would have been reduced. But the young, mentally agile William Murdoch churned through cases like a child indulging in candy, causing quite the backlog of paperwork for the brass. Every time she asked to speak with him, he was always busy. Needlessly busy. There was no earthly way a man could be occupied from noon until night, seven days a week, but her husband could challenge that assumption.

And in the dusk where fell the firelight gleam...

Margaret knew that if she went to the constabulary, she would either be shooed away or expected to provide something that might have exposed her secret unwillingly. All of her lady friends in her sewing circle told stories of revealing their pregnancies to their husbands to a great deal of excitement; why, oh why, could she and Thomas not be like that?

So she had decided to blurt it out one morning as he took his tea at the kitchen counter. He'd only smiled tightly, folded the newspaper under his arm, and ground out, "Why, Margaret, that's wonderful."

"It is?" she'd asked, incredulous of his reaction. Was this the same man that had wept out of fear at the announcement of their last child?

"Yes," he said quietly, tipped his hat towards her, and left the room. By the time she'd worked up the courage to follow him into the foyer, he was gone, and she wasn't to see him until he returned in the evening.

Softly it wove itself into our dream…

Now she waited, arms crossed at the chest, thoughts racing at a mile a minute. Just as she was about to drift off to sleep, chin drooping to touch her breastbone, there came the noise of the front door slamming open.

Margaret was up in an instant, reaching the top of the stairs just in time to see her husband stumble over the threshold. He stared up at her for a moment, and it occurred to her that she would have known that glassed-over expression anywhere.

"For heaven's sake, Thomas, shut the door. You're letting in the cold," she hissed, and sure enough, fat snowflakes were beginning to stain the rug in the entryway. She secured the entrance with a clap and turned back to him, weaving an arm through the crook of his elbow.

There was no point in asking how much he'd had to drink. The truth would come out soon enough. As she helped him up the stairs, he was babbling something about Irish whiskey, and a tavern on the outskirts of town, and a man that wouldn't surrender his bar seat. Passing by one of the mounted lanterns in the hall, Margaret took notice to a new, rather troublesome development: a gash that ran the length from his temple to jaw line.

Mere steps from their bedroom, Thomas's balance faltered, causing her to stumble under his weight and press him against the wall. Now free of her burden, Margaret rose to her full height, catching a whiff of alcohol on her husband's breath. Perhaps she really ought to get back to her neighbor on joining the Temperance League…

"Is Father home?" Came a plaintive voice from further down the hall, and sure enough, John had escaped his room, apparently concerned for his condition.

"Yes, John," she replied with a sad sort of smile, "And he's awfully tired. Run along to bed, and he'll be right as rain in the morning."

The boy seemed satisfied with that. Once he had disappeared from view and the audible click of the door in the jamb was heard, Margaret retrieved her intoxicated husband and made the last few staggering steps towards their bed. He fell lengthwise, with his soggy boots dangling off the edge. She made quick work of those, and returned momentarily with a handkerchief and vial of rubbing alcohol.

At first she was having difficulty reaching the affected area with the added encumbrance of her rounded stomach, so Margaret settled on clambering onto the bed and tucking her knees underneath her. Such a position brought her at eye level with her husband, who grabbed her wrist as soon as she made a reach for his wound.

"Thomas," she ordered calmly, "Let me go." He might have been a recalcitrant drunk, but her skills at navigating his whims were well honed.

He hiccupped into his free hand, and then said, "I don't know why he started the fight."

So he knew what she was about to ask, before she even asked it. In spite of herself, Margaret smiled and set to her work. "Are you sure it wasn't you that threw the first punch?"

Mr. Brackenreid scoffed as if that was the most preposterous thing he'd ever heard. "I try and keep the peace, my dear, not shatter it. It's a policeman's duty."

"But you weren't there on business," she countered, once he had concluded his slurred explanation.

It was awfully quiet after that. She wondered if he would remember this conversation once he sobered up, and dearly hoped that they would. It seemed that the only time the pair could communicate was when he was too intoxicated to consider his words.

Thomas quietly stared up at the ceiling as his wife undressed him for bed. This was unusual for him, for at this stage he was usually proclaiming that his faculties were intact enough for him to care for himself. As she pulled him into the upright position against the headboard and gathered the sheets around him, he could only find the thought to say, "Forgive me. I love you, Margaret."

The needle of the phonograph ran off its track at that moment, descending the room into silence. Finally, she sighed and responded, "And I you, my husband."

Did she really? Yes, of course. She'd sworn to it but nine and a half years ago in her childhood church, flanked on either side by treasured family and friends. He'd been so dashing and well spoken, taking her to the theater on the first outing of their courtship. It was a brand new world to Margaret, whose parents had kept her sheltered since the death of her brothers and well into her twenties. Dismissing the carriage at the front of her home, he'd promised her the world if only she would will it, vowing never ending devotion. They'd embraced under the protective shade of the oak tree in the garden, and he'd proclaimed: "Doubt thou the stars are fire, doubt that the sun doth move, doubt truth to be a liar, but never doubt I love."

She learned later from two of his friends that he'd been practicing that line from Hamlet's second act for the past week, anticipating a flawless delivery. Nevertheless, the gesture was appreciated. A photograph from their wedding stood framed on their dresser, and on the back the very same quotation was written with an elegant hand. As they grew with and within each other, Margaret learned a great deal about her husband. He was a proud man, but profoundly insecure of himself behind closed doors. She'd seen first hand how his shoulders drooped when his office blinds were closed, and felt the desperate pressure of his hand on hers as they sat front row at the funeral services of a treasured colleague. Margaret could hardly chastise him for putting on an air of confidence when she'd become progressively hardened to him over the years.

And all this time, she had not resented him, but her lot in life. The truth was that the former shopgirl had always aspired to more, but what society expected of her kept her firmly where she was. There were stories of suffragettes, and of lady travelers, and female photographers for the newspapers in New York City. Even the rumor of a woman doctor coming to their city morgue at first filled her with envy. She'd been sworn to this domestic way of life from which there was no escape, and it was hard to keep her mouth shut when an opportunity to live vicariously through someone else would come along.

Yet certain misfortunes were unavoidable. Her son would misbehave, the ladies in the neighborhood would judge her for not keeping a maid, and her husband would be three sheets to the wind before the reception could even begin. Speaking of which-

"How's the baby?" Thomas asked, offering her a drowsy smile. Her heart softened to hear this, and she joined him in bed without a second thought.

She smiled and shook her head, "Just fine."

The inspector settled back into the pillows, mumbling something about my family and a full nest. Margaret affirmed his drunken musings, tucking her head in the hollow of his shoulder. Now that they were comfortable, it occurred to her that they'd both been awake far too late into the night.

Just when she suspected that her husband had drifted off to sleep, his hand left his side and strayed downwards, where it resumed a protective position on her abdomen. She couldn't remember him making such a gesture since...since…

Softly, she kissed his cheek, then brought her lips down towards his ear, where she began to sing, "Just a song at twilight, when the lights are low…"

The End